


Steal Third Base (leave my heart out of it)

by Smoakin_dontburnyourself



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Angst, Humor, M/M, Professional athlete AU, Romance, Slurs, mentions of physical abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-09
Updated: 2017-05-12
Packaged: 2018-10-29 23:03:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10863933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Smoakin_dontburnyourself/pseuds/Smoakin_dontburnyourself
Summary: Mickey Milkovich wasn’t expecting to be done in by a smug red-haired reporter (no matter how stupidly attractive) but then again he wasn’t expecting to come out on live T.V either, so maybe life did have a couple of curveballs left to throw him. (Gallavich AU)





	1. Of hypnotizing reporters and confessions

**Author's Note:**

> My first Shameless fic! comments and feedback always welcome
> 
> Also, fair warning, I know very little about baseball so please let me know if I totally butcher something

Mickey Milkovich hit his first homerun when he was six. 

Granted, there was no actual baseball involved, and he got suspended from school for apparent ‘misuse of gym equipment’, but the fucker dropped like a rock so it was a homerun in his book.

By fourteen, he’d taken a liking to the weight of a bat in his fists and the sound it made when it connected with jaw or skull or whichever part it eventually made nice with, he wasn’t picky. His little fetish got him thrown into juvie more times than he had fingers to count with.

By fifteen, so deep up the ass of the Milkovich way, if you would have told him that a beat up baseball bat that he used to collect his drug money would get him out of the Southside, he probably would have taken a swing at you before the sentence was clear out of your mouth.

By sixteen, Mickey felt trapped in the seemingly never ending cycle of crime and juvie, not that he would ever tell you that. Which, in retrospect, probably made him easy prey for Carol, a petite corrections officer with a thing for redemption stories.

“Mickey, always a pleasure, isn’t it?”

“Jesus, I’m really gunna have to do this with you again Carol?”

a pause, but ultimately no give from the small woman who glared at him from behind her desk. She would be intimidating, maybe, if her humongous desk didn’t look like it was having her as a snack.

Mickey exhaled, preparing for the _ you’re still young, you can turn it around _ bullshit routine. Did these people really not see the reality of being stuck in this shithole or did they just get off on sounding like fucking broken records? Either way, Mickey just wanted to get his community service sentence and haul ass out of there.

“Listen, obviously this-” he shifted, leaning forward  “this, irony reverse psychology guilt-tripping shit, or whatever it is you do every time I’m here isn’t reaping any rewards” He motioned at himself, as if his presence in her time-out chair should be enough proof.

Carol ignored him, focused instead on flipping through his ever-growing file

“I see we’ve added another school portrait to my collage” she said, fighting and losing against the urge to tisk her tongue at the compilation of mug shots.

Mickey grunted, chewing on the nail of his middle finger

The obvious flip-off made Carol roll her eyes. She hesitated for a moment, shifting in her seat, bringing her hands together on the desk before sighing and continuing with her sermon

“Aggravated assault, Aggravated assault, Petty theft, Aggravated assault, Domestic disturbance, Aggravated assault, Assault on a police officer, Aggravated assault-”  _ The list goes on _ , she thought to herself, looking up at the bored kid slumped in her chair, hoping that by some miracle of god he was following the yarn

Instead, she found him more focused on the frayed edge of his tank top.

Carol tapped her fingers impatiently against her desk before persisting

“Sensing a pattern here, Mickey? Whats this list telling you?”

“That the Southside of Chicago has a surprisingly loose definition of assault?”

“No” she deadpanned “it's telling you that you’re heading down a slippery slope here...and you’re  _ so young _ Mickey”

Mickey bounced his knee anxiously,reminding himself that her guilt-tripping shit wasn’t supposed to be working

He shrugged

“Do you even  _ play _ baseball?”

Mickey raised an eyebrow, amused by her badly contained outrage at his nonchalance. For a moment he considered telling her about the time he pissed on first base, instead he just kept it short and sweet

“Nah, why?”

“You seem to be doing a lot of damage with the piece of shit” she said, motioning her chin to his bat, tagged next to a ziplock with his name scribbled in sharpie along with a watch and a pack of smokes, set and ready to be released back to him.

“Why don’t you try swinging at a ball for a change?”

Mickey sat up a little straighter in his seat, maybe subconsciously,curious to see what she would say next.

Carol knew a sucker trying to play it cool when she saw one, and the look of interest in Mickey’s eyes made her wonder if there was hope for him yet

“Your sentence is two seasons of _actual_ baseball” she said, smacking down her imaginary gavel 

* * *

 

Two seasons of  _ actual _ baseball and five years in the majors later, Mickey crouched by first base anticipating the last hit of the game. He looked up briefly at the cluster of big screens in the center of the stadium only to see his sweaty ass staring back at him, dirty and panting. God he hated those things

Mickey looked back and pushed down his cap as if that would hide him from the thousands of people that surrounded the field. He spat and focused on Sanchez just as he swung and the ball rocketed his way. 

* * *

 

Three hours later Mickey sat in a bathtub filled to the brim with ice. Cold, nursing his sore muscles and bruised ego after losing a game to the fucking Yankees of all people. He was pretty sure that he bruised a goddam rib trying to out Sanchez at third base before sliding just short and watching the smug fucker make it to home. 

Just thinking about it pissed him off all over again.

Mickey shifted in his bath, flinching when his bruised skin roared at him to stay the fuck still.

He could feel his pulse throbbing on the surface of his torso and for a brief moment, the pain felt like an old friend, like a well worn jacket that always seemed to fit. The familiarity of the sensation took him back to a time where the ache of a couple bruised ribs were the least of his worries. What a teenage Mickey wouldn’t have done to sit in a tub of ice after enduring one of his dad’s particularly bad nights, you know, the ones where he beat the shit out of him for looking at him sideways. Though he doubted that a tub of ice could mend the kind of pain he was feeling back then.

The thought made his brow furrow and his chest tighten with an irrational wave of panic.

After a moment, Mickey decided to stop thinking so fucking much and let the ice numb him. Quiet, almost shy trembles rocked his body, letting him know that the frigid cold was working. It stung like a motherfucker but finally for the first time that entire day, he could breathe. He settled further into the raw bite of the ice, finding a moment of peace before he heard the sound of Oscar’s heavy footsteps approaching

“ _ Fuck _ ” Mickey groaned, before the burly man could even make it into the room

“Milkovich! Where the fuck are-” Mickey watched as his agent hurried past the open door of the trainers, backstepping when he saw him submerged and shivering in the tub.

“There you are, how long have you been in here?”

“Not long enough” Mickey muttered, sinking a little lower

“Rough game, huh?” Oscar tried, mostly to see how shitty of a mood the young baseball player was in

“Fuck off” and there was his answer

“As much as I’d like to do just that Mick-” he said, glancing down at his watch and frowning “I’m here to tell you that you’ve got a last minute appointment with ESPN magazine tommo-”

“Fuck off” Mickey tried again, not looking up towards his annoyed agent, why the fuck did he always pull this shit when he was icing?

Oscar sighed, muttering something in spanish  

“I heard that”

“Yes, but you didn’t understand it, which was the point. Listen, Mickey-”

“No, Oscar, you listen-” He said, clenching his jaw between words to prevent his chattering teeth from biting his tongue off

“I’m not some boy band member trying to appeal to teenyboppers here, I’m a fucking _ ball player _ and no force on this planet is going to make me-”

“You’re doing it” they heard a voice say in passing.

“Don't make me trade you, Milkovich!” the voice added, now at the end of the hallway

They heard the door of his office slam and Mickey sighed, narrowing his eyes at a smug looking Oscar

“I sign you pay checks” Mickey reminded him

“And he signs yours!” Oscar said, making his way out of the room, leaving Mickey to shiver alone

 

* * *

 

Mickey was bitter about a lot of things (So many, he could probably make you a list) but sitting across from Ian  _ fucking _ Gallagher, unable to stop his palms from sweating like a grade school girl had to be at least in the top five.

It wasn’t the way his shirt was pulled taut against his chest that was making him sweat like a pig, it really wasn’t, or at least that's what he’d been telling himself for the better part of the hour that they’d been discussing  _ schedules _ .

Maybe it was the hair,  _ Fuck _ it was definitely the hair 

Why did it have to look like that? So perfectly contrasting the pale of his skin and the lightly almost painted-looking freckles scattered on his face? Couldn't he catch a break with this guy? And since when do fucking magazine editors look this fucking good? And didn’t Gallagher work for that other mag now? The fucking  _ New Yorker _ or some shit?

Not that he’d been checking up or anything

Because he hadn’t been.

Why would he? If there was one thing that hated with a burning passion, it was the fucking press. Paps, reporters, journalists, editors, it didn’t matter, they all had one goal, to stick their nose in his business. In fact, it could be said that Mickey hated the press almost as much as he’d hated the police once upon a time, back when he was a regular in juvie. (though he had hit significantly less reporters than cops)

You appear on TV frequently to hit a ball with a baseball bat and the fucking press suddenly thinks it has a right to stick its nose all up in your business. Follow you around taking pictures and shit, ask you who you’re dating

_ Fuck, are people’s lives really that boring that they need to know who the first baseman of the Cubs is banging? _

Or at least that’s what he asked Ian the night he flagged him down for a post game interview.

Micky would be a dirty liar if he told you that he didn’t choose Ian out of all the other flailing reporters because he was gorgeous and was wearing the hell out of grey T-shirt (he was really doing that shirt a favor, goddamn). Mickey was many things, but not a liar, and he was fucking  _ human _ (sue him).

The shock of red hair caught his eye first, followed shortly by the face, Jesus christ  _ the face  _ ( If asked now, he would say it was a tie). From then on, there really was no choice in the matter, he ran on sheer impulse, wanting to her his voice, see the freckles up close. So he hauled ass over to where the man looked almost bored, throwing a couple elbows to ensure he’d get there first.  

Those green eyes turned out to be a lot more persuasive than Mickey thought possible (like fucking truth serum)

_ “Ian Gallagher, WLS Chicago, congrats on the win, man” _

One thing lead to another, mostly Ian pushing to know who the special lady in his life was (dude wasn’t even subtle about it, just asked the same question three times)  and Mickey getting annoyed because  _ the fuck did that have to do with baseball?   _

It was a dumbass move, live on TV and all, but he was sick of the years and years of the  _ special lady _ bullshit and Gallagher's eyes were just the right shade of green, the straw that broke the camel's back, if you will, and before he knew what way was up, he blurted

“I’m gay!” 

Mickey didn’t exactly know what he was expecting out of the whole situation, hell he hadn’t exactly planned out a fucking speech, but the world didn't explode and his father didn’t come back from the dead and beat his ass so he guessed it could've gone worse.

The skinny dude holding up Gallagher’s camera gaped like a fish, catching a shot of Mickey pushing his hair off his forehead, looking around nervously, his tattooed knuckles flashing the camera  _ Fuck _

Fuck indeed.  

The sideline hadn’t stopped its noisy murmur, interviews continued, people roamed about, and the sky seemed far from falling. Mickey bit the inside of his cheek for a moment but the adrenaline from a well fought game was still pumping through his veins and something in the red head’s eyes made him curl his toes into the bottom of his cleats in what, anticipation? Connection? He wasn’t quite sure.

So he decided  _ fuck it _

“Yeah man, big ol’mo” Mickey finished, eyes locked on Ian, smirking and hoping Gallagher was packing something to back up that look he was giving him from beneath his long lashes (because who could tease with those fuck me eyes and not back it up with some serious action?)

And that's how he came out to the MLB, hypnotized by a red haired newsman who was too gorgeous for his own good (or for Mickey’s own good, that is).

* * *

 

In the aftermath, Oscar just clapped him in the back, knowing better than to say anything too sentimental. His teammates, the idiots, threw him a party, complete with a male stripper dressed as a New York Yankee (Because they were all suddenly comedians, apparently). Oscar was right (not that the man needed the ego boost), the press didn’t care what metaphorical team he played for (the fans did love him more for it) and they did still want to know  _ who _ he was banging. Except now when they asked, they used a more gender neutral  _ special Someone _ . Leave it to the press to craft that kind of bullshit.

Days after shit hit the fan, Mickey toyed with the idea that he had something to thank the redhead reporter for (Spikes in merch sales, the merciful end to the special lady bullshit, feeling free to be who he was, ect.). Maybe he’d send him a fruit basket.

Instead, he decided to settle on giving him another postgame exclusive, maybe even his number (maybe being  _ definitely _ )  

Mickey would be lying if he told you that he didn’t look for the shock of red hair every game for an entire season.

He didn’t find him again, not until he reluctantly walked into ESPN’s sleek office building almost a year later, moping like a kid who didn’t want to go to school. 


	2. TMZ Brawls and Phone Calls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Cubs game? oh fuck no

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trevor is probably kind of out of character, don't hate me! Also, I'm shooting to update this every weekend so yeah, enjoy!

Ian hated sports, always had.

In fact, his distaste for sports was the first thing that ever won him the term faggot, once upon a time in the especially sports crazed block of the South Side of Chicago where he grew up. It really was a way of life, the sports thing, _Something for lonely unsuccessful fuckers to fill their empty heads with_ (Frank's words, not his)

They played everywhere, in bars, in diners, in casual conversations between strangers on the L, literally _everywhere_ , but he just didn’t get the fucking hype.

Trevor was the first one to get him hip to any sport, football to be more specific, basically the only sport he could watch without falling asleep. Which was actually kind of funny because of course he would bump into and start banging an aspiring ESPN editor (which meant that sports basically played in the background during sex)

It hadn’t bothered him much, or at all really, it was hardly the first or only difference he could pinpoint between himself (gay) and the rest of the male South Side population (mostly _not_ gay)  

But that was all before Mickey Milkovich, the ball player with fucking oceans for eyes and basically the only thing that ever made him wish he’d paid more attention to Lip’s failed efforts to get him into Baseball.

* * *

The infamous post game interview hadn’t been his to screw up in the first place.

But he did, screw it up, since it somehow ended with the bad boy of baseball revealing his sexuality to whatever demographic of viewers watched Fox Chicago at 11 pm.

Ian would tell you a lot of things about that night, if asked. Mostly, he would tell you that he had a lot on his plate and had been admittedly somewhat distracted (by work and shit, _definitely not_ by a gorgeous baseball player). Were he drunk enough to ramble, he would blame it on a bead of sweat (enticing and teasing him as it followed its hot path down the pale skin of Mickey’s neck). Naturally, all he could think about was flattening his tongue over the drops of perspiration that covered Mickey Milkovich’s body.

So yeah, he probably accidentally asked the special lady question about three times in his sweaty Mickey induced haze, sue him for being fucking _human_.

 _Fuck, are people’s lives really that boring that they need to know who the first baseman of the Cubs is banging?_  

It had all been downhill from there

Needless to say, the sports community more or less exploded. Most of the press was positive though, in support of the player. But then how could they not support him? he was a fangirl's wet dream, what with the Fuck U-Up tattoo on his knuckles and the baby blue eyes (if anything, those eyes were enough to turn anyone into a devoted Cubs fan).

Actually, Ian vaguely remembered reading a news article about the spike in sales of his merch after the whole thing, even toying with the idea of getting a Cubs 55 jersey of his own (but what was the point? Everyone he knew was aware of his distaste for sports, it’d be too suspicious)

So he didn’t, instead just easing back into his old life, or trying to, at least. You know, existence pre- Mickey Milkovich, before he fell asleep thinking about the baseball player’s smirk on various places of his body.

Ok, so fact was that he couldn’t get back to that, mostly because of the whole dreaming about his face (and mouth) every other night thing. And as life would have it, he couldn’t get away from _seeing_ him either, because not even a week after the whole fiasco, Ian watched as TMZ caught Mickey stepping out of a high end hotel in the North Side.

He walked with a trained disregard, with shades and a Cubs baseball cap riding low over his face, casually, as if he weren’t getting mobbed by what seemed to be every single pap in Chicago.    

_“Over here, Mickey!”_

_"Mickey!"_

_"Ay, give us a smile!"_

_“You gettin a lot of action in those locker rooms, Mick?”_

_“Who’s the lucky lad?”_

The camera flashes illuminated his face in the darkness of the Chicago evening, each and every one of his movements caught by a different frame. Ian was something like hypnotized as he watched Mickey reach into his back pocket to fetch a lighter and a smoke. He made his way down the crowded block without a single care in the fucking world, inhaling and exhaling bursts of nicotine.

_“Mick! C’mon Mick! Tell us, who's that special guy in your life, huh?”_

_“Aww C’mon Mick, you lookin pretty for him tonight?”_

The shot showed Mickey finally making it to a black SUV that was waiting for him on the curb. He was already halfway slid into the backseat of the car when the TMZ asshole took his last shot at getting a reaction out of him.

And get a reaction he did.

Because before Ian could so much as blink at his T.V, Mickey was sliding back out of the car, charging at the cameraman as fast as Ian had ever seen anyone charge at anything, like some fucking category five hurricane. The pap was contrite enough, at least, to mutter an apprehensive “ _shit”_ under his breath.

 _“What the fuck did you say?”_ Mickey asked, although his angry growl suggested that he hadn’t missed the remark

_“Nah, C’mon asshole, one more time, say it again!”_

The camera shook in what looked like a struggle, Mickey grunting that his being gay didn't mean he would be wearing fucking dresses or be looking pretty for _any_ son of a bitch.

 _“Now fuck off!”_ was the last thing on the segment before the camera went black and the show returned to the newsroom. The TMZ group was speechless and all Ian could think was that it was a damn shame, because if anyone had the legs to pull off a dress in the world of baseball, it was Mickey.

 _“He probably wouldn’t look half bad”_ Harvey Levin shrugged, apparently on the same page  

* * *

The day that set that reality into motion started like most disasters start, with a phone call.

The day had already been a complete mess, so it wasn’t really a surprise that it went from bad to worse, Murphy’s law and all.

It was his first year as a junior editor, it was stressful and far from the glamorous job he had been imagining most of his professional life, but it was a step above getting coffee as an intern, so Ian took it happily. He was working on a piece (more like _trying_ to work on and not getting anywhere) when Trevor called, desperate and screeching over the phone

_“I’m dying Ian! And you’re the only one who can save me!”_

_“Dude, what the fuck? If you were actually dying why the fuck would you be calling me and not like an ambulance or some shit?”_

Trevor went silent for a moment, probably rethinking his opener because, yeah, he was right. 

_“Ok, ok, hear me out Ian. She dumped it on me last minute and-”_

_“No”_  Ian said, tonelessly, not even considering whatever he was going to say because the last time he did Trevor a favor he ended up writing a piece on the upkeep of golf course grass.

_“Ian Please! Nick has one of his band things today and you know how fucking sensitive he is about that shit! I really can’t deal with another unsupportive boyfriend fight right now!”_

_“No”_

_“Just this once Ian, C’mon, it’s just one Cubs game! You’ll be in and out, I swear!”_  

A Cubs game?  _oh fuck no_. Ian shook his head into his empty apartment

There were a couple reasons why that was a terrible idea, 1. Ian no longer worked for the local news station, 2. Ian hated sports, and 3. Ian had shit to do, not that he needed more than one reason to tell Trevor to fuck off.

_“Dude, you know Caroline loves the shit out of you, even threw you a going away party, little balloons and everything! She’d probably rather you do it than me anyways! Plus, I have all the questions written out, no sport-y knowledge required! I need to keep this job man, at least ‘till the ESPN thing goes through. I- I'll fucking pay you!”_

Ian rolled his eyes, that cheap ass couldn’t afford him and he told him as much.

The line went still for a moment as Trevor paused (for dramatic effect)

When he spoke again it was somber and nothing short of melodramatic.

_“Ian, if the year we spent making sweet sweet same-sex love ever meant a thing to you…..you’ll help me in my most desperate time of need”_

he groaned, feeling himself caving. God save him from blackmailing ex’s

 _“Fuck you”_ Ian said after a moment

_“Bring me the questions, and tell fucking Nick that it's not live music if they use fucking playback, will ya?”_

He was flipping through the packet of questions a meager hour later because he was apparently a sucker for that guilt-tripping bullshit.

 _You’re a lifesaver, fucking ginger Jesus. Trust me you’ll probably scoot by with only doing the re-cap and talking to a couple of fans. The players usually go straight for big daddies like ESPN and that shit_ ” he babbled, apparently forgetting that it wasn’t Ian’s first rodeo, though he had made it this far successfully avoiding sporting events.

So, piece of cake, right?

 _Yeah fucking right_ , not even four hours later, Mickey Milkovich was strolling right up to his little corner of the sidelines, sweaty and still panting and looking like a fucking baseball god if one ever existed.

Needless to say that Ian spent the better part of a year trying to blink the image away from behind his eyelids (because it might as well have been fucking tattooed there)

But as life would have it, just when it seemed like he’d gone back to his regular dream subjects and finally stopped watching TMZ (because how many times can you drool over Pap shots of a guy before it starts getting creepy?), one phone call did him in (a Trevor phone call, aka the worst kind of phone call).

The phone call ended with Ian clearing his schedule for an entire month, agreeing to house sit Trevor and Nick’s apartment in Chicago, and saying yes to doing the ESPN Mickey Milkovich spread (Because, _Dude this time it’s totally valid, It's my fucking honeymoon! and you’re the only one I trust with this. It’s gunna be huge, man!_ )

Truth was that Ian agreed to do the spread counting on the fact that the electricity from before had been something conjured up by some delusional corner of his imagination.  

* * *

 Except it hadn’t been

Because as soon as Mickey walked through the door of Trevor’s ridiculously large office, he saw recognition in his eyes, followed by a spark that Ian couldn't help but feel all the way down to his toes.

“Well, would you look what we have here, Ian _fucking_ Gallagher in the flesh, huh?”

And Ian had to swallow his hammering heart because the glint in his eyes looked fucking _predatory_.

“I’m a huge fan, man” Mickey said, smirking up at him in a way that made Ian want to turn himself inside out.

There was no mistaking the spark between them, not this time, he could feel it everywhere, down to where their hands connected in a handshake.

Later on, Ian would wonder if he ever stood a chance against Mickey Milkovich, though in the moment he knew that the answer to that was probably, _no_.

But, Ian was nothing if not a professional

So they talked about fucking _schedules._


End file.
